Tropical Garden To Her Garden

Withhold your breath!
Heavy in noon, and sleepy as slow death,
Garden of sweets and sours,
The cluster of my body hangs
Odorous with flowers:
Stamen serpent-fangs,
Sultry, in showers.

Withhold your hand!
My boughs are bent with gold, my face is fanned
With wings of bees that, thirsting, curve and kiss;
Under green leaves, green tendrils coil and hiss;
Sun spills on me, gloom bears me down too much;
My heavy fruit will fall without a touch
From hanging long in sultriness like this.